


How Sherlock Holmes Says 'I Love You'

by cloudtunnel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, John Watson - Freeform, John/Sherlock - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, M/M, Minimal Depictions of Sex, One Shot, Sad, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Spoliers, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:18:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudtunnel/pseuds/cloudtunnel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has many ways to say those three words and John loves every way that Sherlock could say them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Sherlock Holmes Says 'I Love You'

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry about the deletion of The Curious Case of the Bachelor, so this is my way of apologising. Reviews would be appreciated. 
> 
> -Claudia Rose

To become a part of Sherlock Holmes’ world is more difficult than most anything you could do in your life. First of all, you have to be able to understand him even though he only tells you minimal details about himself. You have to be able to not be annoyed by his odd quirks such as playing the violin at two o’clock in the morning. To become a part of Sherlock’s world you have to become his friend- a friend to the friendless man. Sherlock is one whom is hard to break into. He is full of doors and secret douses of psychology as he observes you. You never know if he is smiling or grimacing. Sometimes, he’ll do both. Becoming a part of Sherlock’s life is more than moving in with him because the rent would be cheaper, or following him around in his crazy pursuits. No; becoming someone who means anything to Sherlock means that you, yourself, have to need this man. John Watson knew what it was like to need someone; to _accept_ someone. Being a soldier not only taught him how to obey, respect, and serve; it taught him how to know someone even though their barriers had never been crossed before.

 

Some days John believed that Sherlock said that he loved him by not getting the milk just so John would have to say something to him. One time John had told Sherlock that if he didn’t get the milk he wouldn’t get dinner. Though, John learned that you can’t hold something against someone that they are used to living without. How was he so thin, anyways? He was always working, working, working. Never would he ever go to bed with John at the same time, so why did John think Sherlock would ever get the milk? Sherlock never had the time. Sometimes when John would get the milk Sherlock would apologize- something that he would only do if he actually had to. John would tell him it was nothing, but it was something. Sherlock didn’t have time to get the milk so why would he make time for John?

 

Sometimes John believed that Sherlock told him that he loved him by sneaking into bed at a quarter past four in the morning smelling like death. John would wake up to feel the bed dip behind him and soon find a body wrapped around his. John would never move, would never stir from his spot. Sherlock would rub against him and press a gentle kiss to his hair before falling asleep. The days when Sherlock made it to bed were the days John knew that he meant something. When John had first moved in he realised quickly that Sherlock was a man who would work himself until he literally passed out. If he ever gave up his time to crawl into bed with John, John knew that Sherlock loved him. It was the way that Sherlock got into bed. The way his long limbs struggled to not devour John’s smaller figure, the way that Sherlock would breathe into John’s neck to make it so that the doctor was the last thing he smelled. He had time to breathe, to sleep; to exist with John.

 

The one time Sherlock lay in bed with John and allowed him to take away every last ounce of his innocence was the day John knew that Sherlock loved him. John was his first, his only. The first one to ever have Sherlock in such a way was John. He had held Sherlock’s hands, long fingers clashing with shorter, stubbier ones. He had told Sherlock that everything would be okay even when Sherlock had almost started crying from the pain. Sherlock had told him to keep moving, to keep going. Sherlock had held himself together well enough so that John could enjoy this even though John was trying to please Sherlock. He knew from the moment that Sherlock had allowed John to _touch_ him that Sherlock loved him. Even if the words hadn’t been said, there was enough action for John to know. The way that Sherlock moaned as John took him, the way that Sherlock growled his name, and, when he had finally reached orgasm, the way his broken voice called out John’s name was enough. John knew that Sherlock loved him. Sherlock was never one to beg for things, but the next time as Sherlock begged for John to ‘fuck him harder’ he knew.

 

Or maybe it was the one time Sherlock had actually said it. It was after a long night of work. After dinner at some random restaurant where Sherlock ate even though he wasn’t hungry. It was as John crawled into bed in only his boxers and Sherlock had stripped down to his that Sherlock had said it. They were facing each other and John had just said goodnight as the words darted out of Sherlock’s mouth as if they were attempting to win a race, “I love you,” he had said quickly, his low voice able to keep the words hanging. John had kissed him then, open mouthed and needy. It was a spring day that Sherlock had said it. It was the day before something happened that would destroy John forever. The words stayed in the air during their kiss; they repeated themselves in John’s head. Right as John pulled back he swallowed the words whole and responded with his answer, “Oh, God, Sherlock Holmes, I love you, too.”

 

The next day, when Sherlock called him John ran to his site. John was always following Sherlock. He had to make sure that Sherlock was okay. As he called himself a fake, as he told John to stay away; John ran to him. After all, he loved Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes had told him that he loved him as well. John ran, but he was too late. The cloaked figure hit the ground, John had pronounced him dead. He had attended the funeral of his lover. He had been there to throw dirt on his grave. It was now, as John sat across from his therapist that he finally says it, “I was in love with Sherlock Holmes, and God so help me, he loved me back. He is not dead,” John grits his teeth and looks away the poorly decorated room. “But John, you were there when he died,” his therapist responds her voice dancing. Her voice is too high, too light, John decides. “You didn’t know him. He was damn clever and there is no way he would leave me alone,” John looks down at his lap. His fists are clenched, everything is hitting him.

 

“John, there is no way that Sherlock is alive. For any man to fall that distance means certain death. Do you not understand?” And John stays calm. This woman did not know Sherlock as I did, he tells himself. This woman had no idea what he was capable of. John stands up swiftly and shakes his head, “I believe my time is up,” he nods and turns to leave, but before he does he can swear from somewhere deep in his coat the sound his phone makes is the one that was attached to Sherlock’s phone. He pulls out his phone and looks at the message.

 

_John, I love you._

_-SH_


End file.
